


À Bout de Souffle

by Donna_Immaculata



Series: Nightshapes [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Fingerfucking, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Light Bondage, M/M, Mirror Sex, Porn with Feelings, Recreational Drug Use, Relationship Negotiation, Rimming, Sex Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 05:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2536529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Aramis lifts Athos’ hand to his mouth again and kisses the inside of his wrist, parting his lips very deliberately over the spot where Athos’ pulse is racing under his skin. He’s holding Athos’ gaze, and Athos finds it impossible to look away.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	À Bout de Souffle

**Author's Note:**

> I incorporated my older fic _Biomechanical Recordings_ into this chapter, which I wrote weeks ago as a sneak peek for this universe. I felt it was important to include it in the story, because it's relevant for the character development ~~and porn~~.

_“Il y a entre nous mieux qu’un amour : une complicité._

_What is between us is better than love : it is intimacy.”  
— Marguerite Yourcenar, Feux_

Was Pandora’s Box the same thing as the can of worms? Athos frowns, idly scanning his memory for half-forgotten and never-quite-learned facts. Perhaps not in mythology, but he’s pretty sure that once the door opens, a pandemonium of truly Pandoric proportions will flood in. And they do look very much like worms teeming in a can that’s too small for them. It’s only because of Porthos that he is here at all, attending the screening for schoolchildren at ten in the morning. He’s on his third coffee, leaning against the wall in the lobby and watching the horde of children who are mercifully still locked out. Once the glass door opens, they will rush in with ear-piercing noise and the smell of Hubba Bubba chewing gum and gym socks. He takes another sip of coffee and toys with the idea of getting another cup before all hell breaks loose, but he can’t be bothered to leave his nice, dim corner in the shadows. 

The reception desk is manned by three rather frantic students who are squeezing hours’ worth of preparations into the last few minutes. Fleur is one of them, and Athos catches her eye over the head of another girl. Fleur smiles and he finds himself smiling back. In the next moment, Mother Superior strides over to the desk like the angel of vengeance and fury; she spots Athos and he inclines his head in greeting. Mother Superior has never actually told him she liked the final version of the trailer he made for the festival, but she never complained, either, which he considers a compliment. In fact, he is under the impression that she rather likes him, for reasons best known to herself, and he certainly can’t help liking her.

The door to his left opens, and Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan pile into the lobby. D’Artagnan is carrying a box with badges for the accredited guests. “Good morning,” he says, rather too chipper for this time of day. “Good to see you, Athos.” He shifts the box under his arm so that he can give Athos a quick one-armed hug. “I’ll catch you later, yeah? When things have calmed down a bit.” He walks off to join the girls at the reception desk.

“You’re early,” Aramis says, smiling at Athos with his eyes. 

Athos smiles back. He doesn’t say that he came early, because he wanted to be here, safe and calm and poised, when Aramis and Porthos arrived. Porthos is the only one of their friends who _knows_. Athos hasn’t told anyone, and he’s sure Aramis hasn’t, either. For all his faults, and for all his swagger, Aramis can be surprisingly discreet. This means that the secret is safe, that he is safe when they meet people like Constance or d’Artagnan. But here… Fleur is here, and Athos expects Ninon will show up at some point during the festival as well – though probably not to the children’s programme. Relative strangers, and they know more about his personal life than his friends do. He’s walking the tightrope, and even though he doesn’t exactly dislike it, he finds living in continuous suspense somewhat trying.

Aramis appears unruffled, but then Aramis has slept with at least half of the festival staff; one more person will hardly disconcert him. 

Athos turns to Porthos. “Where’s Flea? Don’t tell me you left her out there,” he points at the glass doors, “to contain the horde on her own?”

“Nah, I left her with Alice. Charon is with her, the horde is in good hands,” Porthos says. “Alice is presenting the programme.”

“Have you met Alice yet?” Aramis asks Athos. “She only got the job a few weeks ago.” 

“I don’t think so. Treville mentioned he’s got someone new for the school film programme, but I never met her.”

“I never met her before today, either, only ever emailed her,” says Porthos. “Had to make sure she gets what it’s all about.” He clasps Aramis’ shoulder. “I’ve gotta go talk to the tech guy. He claims one of the files is corrupted.”

“Good luck,” Aramis says and pats Porthos’ arm as he walks past him.

Porthos strides off with a quick glance at Aramis and then Athos. Athos twirls his cup and watches the coffee swirl around. He’s very aware how close Aramis is, his body senses Aramis’ physical presence even when he’s not looking at him. Aramis lounges with his back to the pillar, one hand buried in his jeans pocket, one foot propped against the pillar, staring off into the distance and looking like an avant-garde model. His coffee cup dangles forgotten between the fingers of his other hand.

Athos shifts, and Aramis resurfaces from his reverie. He turns towards Athos with a smile. “I like what you did with the trailer,” he says. “From what I hear, Mother Superior didn’t have any complaints. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Athos says. It’s too early for small-talk. “How did it go yesterday?” he asks.

Aramis looks away and threads his hand through his hair. “Okay,” he says. “I think… It feels right.”

“Good.” Athos takes another sip of coffee. “Is it the same therapist you had last time?”

“No.” Aramis shakes his head and looks back at Athos. “The one last time was hopeless. Or perhaps I was hopeless, that’s more likely, actually. I feel much saner this time,” he says in a voice that’s light as air.

“Good,” Athos says again, thinking of Maria Bonnaire’s knife at Aramis’ throat. It wasn’t all due to PTSD, Aramis was an adrenaline junkie by nature. Still, Athos suspects that the degree of recklessness Aramis exhibited in the aftermath of Lake Geneva pretty much marked him down as suicidal. “I wouldn’t want you to-” _feel_ “-get like that again.” Please don’t feel like that again; don’t move as if every bone in your body had been shattered and your skin hurt from the slightest touch.

“I won’t.” Aramis shakes his head. “Honestly, I’m all right.”

Athos lowers his head and raises his eyebrows at him.

Aramis taps his finger against his coffee cup. “You know what I mean. In a way I’ve already dealt with Marsac’s death, I had five years to deal with it. I’m not… It’s fine, honestly. Don’t worry about me.”

“Very well,” Athos says. “I won’t.”

The door opens, and all hell breaks loose.

~*~

Mercifully, the kinds attending Porthos’ screening are all in their teens. Still, it takes a while for them to settle down. Aramis and Athos loiter around at the back of the theatre and watch chaos turn into order. It’s easy to tell which one is Flea’s group; they’re the ones who are disciplined and quiet. For the school classes who are visiting the screening, this is a fun outing, a trip to the cinema rather than a morning in school. For Flea’s lot, this is the chance to make their voices heard.

“I assume you’ve already seen them,” Athos says to Aramis. 

Aramis nods. “And am duly impressed. How does Porthos have the patience to teach them all this stuff.”

“He really does.” Athos watches Porthos across the room. Porthos is talking to Alice and Flea, his hand rests on the shoulder of a very tall, very thin black boy who is watching the audience intensely. Athos is familiar with that look; the boy is scanning the set. He glances at Aramis and indicates the boy with a nod of his head. Aramis follows his gaze and a knowing expression creeps on his face.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s Porthos’ star pupil. Porthos showed me his raw footage.”

“Any good?”

“Oh yes,” Aramis says softly. 

The lights grow dim, and a susurrus sweeps through the rows. The youngest kids here are about twelve, certainly not younger, and most if not all of them have been to a cinema before. But this is different, this is a programme made specifically for _them _. This is something they talked about in class. They are aware that it’s not simply a film that they are going to see, and, despite their blasé urban attitude and their extensive experience with media, they sense that something new and exciting is about to happen.__

__Alice gets on stage and introduces Flea and Porthos, and the project. She tells the audience that the short films they are about to see have been made by their peers, by children of asylum seekers and illegal immigrants. They don’t live in this country; they’re unwelcome visitors. They may be made to leave any day, and they have nowhere to go. Her words resonate with the kids in the audience, Athos can tell. Many of the spectators are children of immigrants, too – legal ones, naturalised ones; immigrants with German passports or children of immigrants, born and bred here, yet forever balancing between two worlds. No wonder Porthos has been so passionate about the project. No wonder he’s spent the last few weeks doing nothing else, turning down other jobs, to get this finished on time and make it as good as possible. If anyone knows what it is like, growing up between two worlds, never fitting in, not welcome in any of them, it’s Porthos. All of a sudden, it occurs to him that Aramis must have been about twelve when he moved to Europe with his mother. That must have been quite a shock for him too, a sudden upheaval that was not his choice, Athos has never considered it in that light. He glances at Aramis from the side, but Aramis looks calm and unconcerned, his eyes fixed on Alice on stage._ _

__“We prepared ten films for you,” Alice says, and a groan tears through the audience. Ten films sounds a lot. “Don’t worry,” she smiles, “they’re not very long. The longest one is only twelve minutes. There’ll be a break after ever three films, and I will tell you what’s coming next. We’re starting with a film by Malalai from Afghanistan, “Kaffeekränzchen”, followed by a film by Almaz from Eritrea, “Black Spring”, and then a film by Ziad from Syria, “When The Gods Dance”._ _

__Malalai, as Athos learns later, is the daughter of a man who worked as a translator for the German troops deployed in Afghanistan. The father sent his family away; as collaborators, their lives were at risk after the Germans had left. Malalai’s film sets a simple domestic scene: it shows several women around a coffee table, chatting; their voices are dull and muffled at first. Tuning in gradually, it slowly emerges that what looks like housewives discussing cake recipes and diets are in fact women talking about the war that has followed them to their new country, their new homes. The Eritrean girl’s “Black Spring” is a study of motion: a choreography that challenges the European perception of African bodies. It is as elegant as it is uncomfortable; Almaz doesn’t look older than fourteen. Ziad’s film is a fairy tale under endless skies. When his brother was little, not so long ago, only last summer, his parents used to tell him that the bright lights that appeared almost every night in the sky were the ancient and long-forgotten gods of the desert dancing by the light of burning stars._ _

__The boy whom Athos pegged as Porthos’ star pupil is called Xasan and is a refugee from Somalia. He’s the one who submitted the twelve-minute film, and Athos is impressed both by the boy’s native talent as well as by Porthos’ ability to transform the raw material into a masterpiece. “Leviathan” is twelve minutes entirely without sound. The lack of sound makes every second stretch into an eternity and puts the audience on edge. Athos catches himself controlling his breathing very deliberately and feels his stomach muscles clench on every inhale. The film is shot on a mobile phone with a steady hand that, once trained, could rival even that of Aramis, who is a master of hand-held shots._ _

__Twelve silent, breathless minutes aboard a sinking ship. A cacophony of crashing waves explodes 30 seconds before the end, shrill and booming at the same time, spiralling around them in time with the stark image of a black, swirling water vortex._ _

__During the Q &A after the screening, it is ridiculously easy it is to tell them apart, the kids from different schools and different backgrounds. That’s a _gymnasium_ class there, middle-class kids with a good education background, kids who have been briefed and prepped in advance and who have come equipped with the right sort of questions: intelligent questions, academic questions. And then there’s the other kids, _hauptschule_ most likely, some of them don’t even speak German all that well, even though most of them were born in this country. Their questions are raw, cruel even._ _

__Athos spots Flea talking to several teachers in the lobby later. The kids are much more subdued than they were two hours ago. Some of the faces look shockingly young. Critical voices have been claiming that you can’t confront children that age with images like these. The Cardinal certainly didn’t like the idea, but was for once overruled by Louis, who surprises everyone with his astuteness and with his ability to make the right decision once in a blue moon. “What do you mean children shouldn’t watch such things, Armand,” Louis said. “Children experienced such things.”_ _

__While Flea is talking to the teachers, Porthos is talking to Alice. They are both standing slightly apart from the group, laughing, and had Porthos not told him only this morning that he’s never met Alice before, Athos would assume that they are old friends. Aramis is talking to someone Athos can’t see from where he’s standing by the reception counter, but judging by the expression on Aramis’ face, it must be Anne. That reverent tender look is reserved for her, as if she were something precious that he’s not worthy to touch._ _

__Aramis raises his head and his eyes meet Athos’. He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows with a meaningful not-quite smile and then looks at Porthos. His gaze then shifts to Charon, who is standing with several of the kids by the door, as if poised to flee at any moment and whose attention is on Flea. Aramis strolls over to Porthos and Alice and joins their conversation with practised ease._ _

__“Flea is great,” d’Artagnan says to Athos, leaning across the counter with a bottle of coke in his hand. “Do you want a drink?”_ _

__“Not before lunch,” Athos says._ _

__“What? No, I meant a coke or something.”_ _

__“Litchi Bionade then,” Athos says._ _

__“I wish I could do what they do,” d’Artagnan continues. “Porthos did such a great job with these kids. Did you see any of the raw footage?”_ _

__Athos shakes his head. “Did you?”_ _

__“Yeah, Porthos showed me some of the early attempts.” Athos’ hunch after d’Artagnan’s first visit to Aramis and Porthos’ flat has proved to be correct: d’Artagnan has taken to hanging around their place, and Athos expects him to get his own toothbrush any day now. “It’s incredible, the progress they’ve made in only a few weeks.”_ _

__“He’s a brilliant tutor,” Athos says. “Tell him you’d like to work with him on his next project, I’m sure he’ll be happy to have you on board.”_ _

__“Yeah, actually…”_ _

__“What?”_ _

__“I’d like to work with you,” d’Artagnan says in one breath._ _

__Athos turns round to face him across the reception counter. “With me?”_ _

__D’Artagnan looks at him with imploring wide eyes. “I like your style. It’s so precise, and your films have so much depth. They always feel like there was more to them than what you see. Please, Athos. I know you like to have full control over your work, but let me help with editing or something. I’m quite good, and you can always make me do it again when I screw up.”_ _

__Athos smiles with a corner of his mouth. “I’ll think about it,” he says._ _

__“Great, thanks!” D’Artagnan puts his hand on Athos arm. “You can trust me, I won’t disappoint you. Don’t get me wrong, I like this job here,” he looks around. “And it’s great that you guys recommended me to Treville, but I don’t want to work on the organisational side of things. I want to be on the creative side.” His attention wavers all of a sudden, and he looks at something over Athos’ shoulder. Athos turns his head._ _

__Constance has just come in. She hugs Flea, Porthos and Aramis, and then walks towards him and d’Artagnan, smiling a brilliant smile. Athos shoots a sidelong glance at d’Artagnan and remembers what Constance said in Aramis’ kitchen the other day. ‘His eyes light up when he looks at me.’_ _

__He pushes himself off the counter with his hip and lets Constance hug him hello. “You missed a great screening,” he says._ _

__“I know,” Constance say. “I wanted to come, but Jacques was leaving for a business trip and we had some last-minute things to discuss.”_ _

__“How long will he be gone?” Athos asks, in a level and casual tone, and very aware that behind him d’Artagnan is trying hard to conceal his excitement and joy._ _

__“Only four days,” Constance says._ _

__“You better make the best of it, then,” Athos says._ _

__She glares at him. “You’re starting to sound like Aramis.”_ _

__“Sorry,” he says. “That wasn’t my intention.” He excuses himself and walks off, past the groups scattered around the lobby, past Porthos and Alice, past Treville, who is busy talking on the phone and raises his hand at Athos in greeting and out of the door. Aramis has disappeared somewhere, and it is annoying to realise he notices Aramis’ disappearing. This is not good, he can’t spend every social gathering scanning the crowd and keeping a mental tab on Aramis’ whereabouts. He’s not going down that path again._ _

__A small crowd has gathered before the entrance; people are talking, drinking coffee, leafing through the festival catalogue, waiting for the 12pm block to begin. Athos spots one or two acquaintances but doesn’t stop to talk. The festival is headquartered in an old factory building; the door opens into a yard, enclosed by walls on all sides. He walks around the corner, to the cast-iron spiral stairs that lead up to the backdoor, sits on the step and pulls out his phone._ _

__“Hey!”_ _

__“Hey!” Athos startles. He hasn’t noticed Charon in the shadows. Charon holds out a cigarette case wordlessly. Athos accepts one and takes Charon’s lighter._ _

__“Thank you.” Athos exhales a lungful of smoke. “That was really good,” he says. “The programme you guys put together.”_ _

__“Yeah,” Charon says. “So they tell me.”_ _

__“You don’t think so?”_ _

__Charon shrugs. “I don’t know, mate. Not my area.”_ _

__“Even so,” Athos says, “you were there, you saw how the audience reacted. They were enthralled”_ _

__“They’re enthralled by anything,” Charon says. “I see kids like them spend hours staring at compilations of hilarious accidents on YouTube.”_ _

__Athos lifts a corner of his mouth in a smile. “Perhaps you’re right. It’s not so much the content but the medium that fascinates them.”_ _

__“Yeah, right.”_ _

__“Still, it is important to give these kids a platform.”_ _

__“Yeah, that’s what you people always say,” Charon says. “Give them a platform. Give them hope. Give them a future. What they need is a roof over their head, somewhere where they know they are safe. Where they won’t get kicked out and moved away and put into another temporary shelter, or sent back to where they escaped from. What they need is not a future, mate. It’s a present.”_ _

__“There’s nothing we can do about that,” Athos says._ _

__“No. All you can do is making films about other people’s lives.” Charon jabs a finger angrily at the building that looms above him. “Porthos is the same now. He didn’t use to be. And Flea-” He breaks off and sucks at his cigarette angrily._ _

__Flea. Athos remembers that she used to be involved with Charon, ages ago. She was Porthos’ girlfriend when they were teenagers, before he left Berlin and travelled to Mozambique to search for his father. He ended up travelling the world for several years, and when he came back, Flea was with Charon. Porthos managed to win her back in the end, and Charon… Athos glances at him from the side and can’t begrudge him his resentment._ _

__“There you are,” Aramis appears on top of the stairs and leans over the banister. He stretches out one hand. “May I?” Athos stands up, hands him his cigarette and watches Aramis take a drag. “Are you coming back in? The next block is about to start.”_ _

__“No.” Athos shakes his head. “I’ll join you again at two. I’ve got work to do. “He pats his bag with the laptop. “Is d’Artagnan around? If you see him, tell him I’ve got something for him. He can join me for lunch in the café, and I’ll show him.”_ _

__“He’ll be delighted,” Aramis says and hands Athos his cigarette back. “See you later then.”_ _

____

~*~

D’Artagnan _was_ delighted. He soaked up every word of Athos’, and Athos gained the impression that d’Artagnan did actually understand what he was telling him. Then again, Aramis and Porthos have already said that the boy is clever and quick-thinking. He’s got a sound theoretical knowledge, what he needs is hands-on experience. Athos has caught himself mentally assigning himself, Aramis and Porthos as tutors for different tasks. His instinct tells him that d’Artagnan will be a valuable asset once he’s trained up a bit.

They stayed for the afternoon screenings, but decided to give the evening programme a miss. Porthos had left already with Flea and Charon to celebrate the success with the kids, and Athos once again found himself alone with Aramis. It felt entirely natural to fall into step with Aramis after they got off the u-bahn, and Athos was back at Aramis and Porthos’ flat quite without meaning to. 

The moment the door falls shut behind them, Aramis’ hand is on his hip, tugging him close by the waistband of his jeans. “What did you do with d’Artagnan?” Aramis murmurs into a slow kiss. “I’ve never seen anyone more radiant with joy.”

“I gave him a couple of things to do,” Athos says, brushing his mouth from Aramis’ mouth to his ear. “Things that he can’t easily screw up.”

“Delegating menial tasks?” Aramis smirks. “You’re such a lord of the manor.”

“Actually,” Athos frees himself from Aramis’ arms and is slightly disappointed that Aramis lets him go without a struggle. “I’ve got to finish something first. You’ll have to wait.”

“Mmh,” Aramis toes off his shoes and strides off towards the kitchen. “I’ll have a shower then.”

~*~

When Aramis comes in from the shower, naked, Athos is editing subtitles. Aramis shifts the floor-length mirror into the light and begins to put on body lotion, watching himself like the narcissist that he is. Athos watches him over his laptop, and Aramis catches his eye. He grins. “How is it going?”

“The subtitles that idiot sent in,” Athos says, “ they’re literal translations of every tiny bit of dialogue, including fillers. I’ve got to edit out half of the text at least.”

“Hm,” Aramis turns his attention back to himself, rubbing lotion into his arms in long, loving strokes.

“Vanitas vanitatum,” Athos mutters, shaking his head, and returns to his work. Aramis smirks. He walks over to the bed and sits down opposite Athos, unselfconscious in his nakedness.

“Don’t tell me you don’t appreciate it,” he says in a tender, teasing voice. “You enjoy aesthetic input like the next man.”

“Beauty, you mean. You think that I do this with you, because you’re beautiful,” Athos says drily.

“It’s certainly a factor.”

“Well, I can only apologise that I can’t offer you the same in return.”

Aramis begins to laugh, and then stops and frowns. “Oh,” he says quietly. “You really think that, do you?” He lifts Athos’ laptop off the futon. “Have you saved everything?” He puts it carefully aside and takes Athos’ hand. “Has no-one ever told you that you’re beautiful?”

“That’s not generally something men get told, under the best of circumstances,” Athos says primly. “You realise that your experience is not the norm, right? You’re an aberration.”

“Yeah, it was Adele, actually. She put me on to it.”

“The fact that you’re beautiful? Don’t tell me you’d been ignorant of that.”

“No, not that. To the fact that men get never told that they are. It’s rather unfair, don’t you think?”

“Indeed. You should go and join the men’s rights movement. Complain that you don’t get objectified enough.”

“It’s not about objectification.” Aramis is stroking the back of Athos’ hand with his thumb. “It’s-” he laughs softly, lifts Athos’ hand to his mouth and kisses his palm. “You have beautiful hands, you know that, right?”

Athos glances down at his own hands. They’re pale and long-fingered and rather too thin. His wrists are certainly much too thin.

“Seriously, I’d kill for hands like yours. And you don’t even take care of them.” He shakes his head in exasperation. 

“I cut my nails,” Athos says, resisting the impulse to pull his hand away from Aramis’ grip.

“Thank god for small mercies. I couldn’t bear it if they were bitten or chipped. I would have to wrangle you to a manicurist.”

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Athos says, tapping his finger against Aramis’ knuckle. Aramis’ hands are tan and broader than his own. “They look fine to me.”

“Yours are artistic. And aristocratic,” Aramis smiles and kisses the pad of Athos’ forefinger. “And you’re wrists are exquisitely delicate.”

“Good heavens. You make me sound like a Victorian maiden.” Athos is getting into the swing of the conversation, vaguely embarrassing though it is. “You don’t have to sweet talk me into anything. ‘Exquisitely delicate’, my arse. I think the word you’re looking for is ‘scrawny’.”

“¡Dios mio!” Aramis sighs theatrically. “I can see there’s a lot still of work to be done. You’re like a challenging long-term project,” he says in an offhand voice, and Athos’ heart leaps. “You realise that you’re no longer eighteen, right?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“That, my friend, means that the scrawny teenage boy you remember from the days when you tried and failed to get into girls’ knickers no longer exists.” Aramis, who has been tracing patterns on the back of Athos’ hand, turns it over and scratches his nails lightly across his palm. “You’ve grown up, and matured, and your body’s filled out.” He passes his hand over the curve of Athos’ shoulder. “Have you any idea of the effect your shoulders-to-waist ratio has on people? Actually, I’d kill for your waistline, too.”

Athos looks down on himself mechanically, and his gaze drags over Aramis’ cock. His breath hitches. Aramis is getting hard, and they’re not even doing anything. His own cock twitches in his jeans, and Athos looks up quickly, straight into the dark, direct stare he’s so familiar with by now. 

Aramis lifts Athos’ hand to his mouth again and kisses the inside of his wrist, parting his lips very deliberately over the spot where Athos’ pulse is racing under his skin. He’s holding Athos’ gaze, and Athos finds it impossible to look away.

Aramis lets go with one hand and runs it over his own arm, where he has not rubbed in the lotion properly, gathers up some and swipes the palm of his hand over Athos’. “Actually…” he says and guides Athos’ hand to his own chest. His skin feels even smoother than usual, softened by water and lotion, and he rubs Athos’ hand against it.

“Am I-” Athos says, startles at the sound of his own voice, clears his throat and starts again. “Am I supposed to make do with your leftovers?”

Aramis smiles. “Oh, you can have your own.” He reaches for the nightstand and picks hand cream from the drawer. “Just keep still.” He scratches a nail all the way from Athos’ wrist to the tip of his middle finger and smiles as it twitches in his grip. “I said keep still. No twitching. Do you think you can do that?”

Athos shifts, slides his legs underneath Aramis’, scissoring him as they sit face to face. “We’ll see.” He’s almost fully hard now, and it’s ridiculous, the way his body reacts to the smallest touch. Aramis presses his legs down on his, holding him in place with their weight. He squeezes some cream into his own palm, rubs it between his hands and then takes Athos’ hand again. Athos’ leans back against the wall, watching Aramis touch him. It truly is an aberration, a freak of nature, it’s impossible that any human should be able to make everything they do so fucking erotic. Yet there’s no other word for it. It’s not even about sex – not yet, his mind supplies – it’s the sensuality of his touch. Aramis rubs in the cream into his hand, and it’s like he was making love to his skin. 

“What’s your secret?” Athos asks. “How do you do it?” He makes a vague gesture, but is not surprised that Aramis gets his meaning.

“It’s a gift,” Aramis smiles. “Just like your hands are.” He rubs slowly one finger after the other, leaving Athos’ skin tingling in the wake of his touch. “Look at this fine bone structure,” he runs a fingertip over the jut of a knuckle. Just as Athos gets used to the sensation, Aramis lifts his hand to his mouth again and sucks his finger in. Athos gasps and his arm, his hips twitch. “Keep still,” Aramis mutters around his finger. His eyes are smiling at Athos and his breath is hot and damp on Athos’ skin. Aramis pulls away and sinks his teeth into the pad of Athos’ forefinger. “You know what?”

“What?”

“I love watching your hands on me.” He moves his mouth to the next finger, and the next, nibbling at the soft pads. “That morning, in your kitchen.” He drags his mouth over Athos’ palm, and the rasp of his beard and scratch of teeth are exquisite counterpoints to the soft touch of lips and tongue. “When you wanked me off. The sight of your hand on me, it was mesmerising. The angle of your wristbone, your fingers curled around my cock,” he punctuates the word with a sharp bite, and Athos’ whole body jerks off the mattress. “The aesthetic pleasure was almost as overwhelming as the sensory.”

“I was standing behind you, you didn’t have to see my face,” Athos says.

Aramis stops. “Oh,” he says softly. “Do you really- is that really-” He hauls himself forward, wrapping his legs fully around Athos as he’s sitting in his lap. “Do you realise that I know exactly what kind of light it takes to make your eyes look green?” He brushes his thumb over the arch of Athos’ brow. “There is a certain light and a certain angle, and they change colour from blue to green. That would never happen with an eye colour like mine. And don’t get me started on the freckles. You do know how sexy freckles are, right?”

“Not where I come from.”

“No, your insular little tribe still clings to that Victorian idea that they’re an abomination and should be etched away with lemon water and vinegar. The rest of the world has moved on.”

Aramis hovers inches before him, and Athos is convinced that he’s about to kiss him, but Aramis withdraws abruptly. “I haven’t quite finished yet,” he says and takes Athos’ other hand in his. He rubs cream into his palm, then into the back of his hand, but not his fingers. Athos rests his other hand, the one that still tingles from Aramis’ touch, on Aramis’ leg, stroking the inside of his thigh with his fingertips. He watches Aramis raise his hand to his mouth and lick his finger from base to tip, flashing him a filthy smile. Athos smirks back; he has become quite comfortable with Aramis’ game. The desire to bolt has evaporated somewhere along the way. When Aramis slips the tip of his tongue between Athos’ forefinger and middle finger, he pushes both into Aramis’ mouth, pressing down on Aramis’ tongue, and watches Aramis’ eyes widen in surprise.

Athos leans in, pulling his hand back slowly, dragging his fingers over Aramis’ tongue, and licks into Aramis’ open mouth. This is all it takes; in the next moment, Aramis is sitting astride him, his legs wrapped tightly around Athos’ waist. His cock slips under the hem of Athos’ t-shirt and burns hard and huge against Athos’ stomach. He grabs Athos by the hair, pulls his head back and licks a hot path down Athos’ throat. Without apparent effort, he lifts himself off Athos, hovers astride his legs and pulls Athos down by his hips until he’s stretched out on his back. And then he’s back, with the full length and the full weight of his body, rubbing himself against Athos like a cat, and his hair, soft and damp from the shower, leaves cooling patches on the fabrics of Athos’ t-shirt. “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” Aramis murmurs into his ear, scalding Athos’ skin with his breath.

“And there’s me thinking you immersed yourself in cinematic art,” Athos says, and moans, because Aramis has ground their hips together.

“You were sitting next to me, almost touching me, and I could smell you,” Aramis continues unabashed, buries his nose in the crook of Athos’ neck and sniffs. Athos bites down on his own lip, and his grip around Aramis’ hips tightens. “Yeah, like that,” Aramis whispers. “Harder.”

“Harder what?”

Aramis raises his head and speaks against Athos’ mouth. “Your hands. On me.”

“Fuck!” Athos groans and digs in his fingers into Aramis sides, bruising him with his nails until Aramis hisses and arches off him. Athos raises himself off the mattress, sucks in Aramis’ lip and bites down, hard enough to make Aramis hiss again, and then groan. Aramis pushes himself up, crawls over Athos on his hands and knees, kneels up astride him and brushes his cock over Athos’ mouth. 

Athos parts his lips and clenches his hands around Aramis’ hips. His thumbs dig into soft skin and hard muscles, Aramis will have bruises there tomorrow, and he pulls Aramis in. Motions Aramis to slide his cock into his mouth; a steady, firm pressure and the familiar taste of salt and skin. Aramis lets his body fall forward and braces himself with one arm against the wall. “Stop me if it’s too deep,” he says in a very low, breathless voice. Athos mmhs his assent around his cock.

Aramis moves his hips back, slowly withdrawing from Athos’ mouth, and when he pulls out completely Athos wipes his mouth and picks a hair from his tongue.

“All right?” Aramis asks, brushing Athos’ hair from his forehead.

“Yeah.” Aramis’ cock hovers above his face, curved slightly to the right so that the tip almost brushes his mouth. Athos exhales a warm breath against it and locks his gaze with Aramis. “Do that again.”

Aramis falls into a slow rhythm obediently, dictated by Athos’ hands around his hips. Athos presses his tongue against the underside of Aramis’ cock and watches him move above him, watches his stomach muscles tense and relax with every thrust, watches his eyes widen and then fall shut when Athos sucks him in hard. He doesn’t let go, relishing the sensation of Aramis’ cock throbbing in his mouth, against his tongue, and he continues to suck him in, whilst pushing him back by the hips at the same time, until Aramis’ pelvis jerks forward, ramming his cock deep into Athos’ mouth. 

He chokes, saliva is flooding his mouth and throat, but Aramis is so close, Athos doesn’t want him to stop. The way Aramis’ muscles twitch under his hands, the way his breath comes in sharp gasps, the way he clutches Athos’ forearm, holding onto it as if it was a lifeline – it’s such a turn-on to see him like this, to feel him like this, and Athos sucks him in deeper, as deep as it gets, slow and careful, because he doesn’t want to make himself choke. Aramis groans and his thighs spasm, and Athos slips a hand between his legs and cups his balls. Aramis pulls back cursing, but his hips jerk forward again, and he’s coming with a salty-bitter gush in Athos’ mouth.

He remains kneeling above him, staring down at Athos with wild eyes. His face, with its high cheekbones framed by a mess of still-damp hair, is Mephistophelian. 

“What?” Athos asks, suddenly self-conscious. He feels scrutinised to the bottom of his soul. Aramis doesn’t often give that impression, preferring to flaunt his veneer of charm and levity, but there is something deeply unsettling about those dark eyes when all laughter is gone and all that remains is feral passion.

“Nothing.” Aramis sinks down onto the futon beside him, passes his thumb over Athos’ lower lip and kisses him on the mouth. “There are moments,” he says, “when it suddenly strikes me how incredible this is.”

“The sex?”

“The fact that you are having sex with me.” He scuttles closer and nuzzles Athos’ neck. “Seriously, I never dreamed that you’d suck me off one day.” There’s a whisper of laughter against his skin, and Aramis adds: “Well, no, I did dream about it, to be perfectly honest.”

“I dreamed about you,” Athos admits to his own surprise. Aramis goes very still. 

“You did? Really?” He kisses Athos on the collarbone, just above the collar of his t-shirt

“After you kissed me for the first time.” For some reason, he feels rather protective, cradling Aramis’ head to his chest like that. All those weeks, and he still has the feeling that he hasn’t gauged the dimensions of Aramis’ body correctly. They’re both about the same height. Aramis’ shoulders, his back are all bulging muscles that make him heavier, more solid than Athos thought he would be. Yet there’s also a fragility to Aramis sometimes that makes him appear younger and slighter than he is, especially now when he’s lying naked in Athos’ arms.

“I’m honoured.” Another warm puff of breath against his neck, and then Aramis’ hands, sliding under the hem of his t-shirt. “Take this off,” he mouths into Athos’ skin.

Aramis is so good with his mouth. Spread on his back, naked at last and hopelessly hard, Athos keeps his eyes deliberately open, staring at the slanted ceiling above his head, one hand buried in Aramis’ hair who is sucking him off, deep and unhurried. Ripples of pleasure frizzle all over his body, tiny shudders that make the muscles tremble just beneath the surface of his skin. This is so good, so good, Aramis knows what he’s doing, and Athos bites his lip, because the swirl of unfounded dread is unfurling in his stomach again, and his thoughts begin to slip away from him. He bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut; Aramis doesn’t deserve this, not again. His inability to come is as irrational as it is ridiculous. If he was a woman, he’d be faking an orgasm now, because Aramis doesn’t deserve being rejected like this. 

The hot mouth around him withdraws, and then there’s the pressure of lips against the underside of his cock, the rasp of Aramis’ beard over his tender skin, and Aramis is sucking his balls into his mouth, first one and then the other, his hand curled loosely around Athos’ cock. Athos gasps and his hips arch off the mattress, thrusting his cock into Aramis’ hand. 

Aramis’ tongue swipes lower, wet and slippery, and the tip presses into the spot behind Athos’ balls. He tenses, bracing himself, but Aramis merely rubs his cheek against the inside of his thigh and presses an open-mouthed kiss into Athos’ skin. “Turn over,” he says quietly and straightens up.

Dazed, Athos looks at him. Aramis is kneeling between his legs, caressing his thigh with his fingertips. His eyes are very dark and serious. The swirl of unnamed panic in Athos’ stomach morphs into something different, just as powerful and almost as scary, and he rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in his folded arms. He feels Aramis lower himself onto him; the cross that dangles from the chain around his neck comes to rest on his spine, and Athos shudders. The cold metal is in stark contrast to the warmth of skin and flesh as Aramis brushes his chest over Athos’ back. He bites the nape of Athos’ neck, licks down his spine, rubs his beard into the sensitive flesh of his loins, and then sinks his teeth into the meat of his arse. Athos jumps. Undeterred, Aramis continues further down, one long lick after another. He nips at the crease on top of Athos’ thigh, and then parts his cheeks and swipes his tongue gently over his arsehole. “Fuck, I’m getting rimmed,” Athos thinks with sudden clarity. The hairs on his entire body stand up as though electrified and his head buzzes as if he really received an electric shock.

Aramis licks him again, tantalisingly gently. Athos isn’t even sure if it is the tip of his tongue that slides wetly over his skin or if it’s his hot moist breath. It doesn’t matter, the sensation is dizzying in its intensity. He doesn’t realise that he’s started to push back, not until Aramis swipes his hand over the muscle of his thigh. “Pull your leg in a bit,” he says calmly. Athos obeys, it’s impossible not to, and Aramis leans back in and licks him deeper, and then he spits, wet and filthy, and the tip of his tongue slips in.

Fucked open by Aramis’ tongue, he lies there, panting, coated in sweat from head to foot. His blood pumps directly under his skin, and there’s too much pressure; his skin, his heart will burst if Aramis doesn’t do something soon. Those slow, leisurely licks are not enough. Athos’ fingers clench in the pillow and his back arches, pushing his arse into the heat of Aramis’ mouth.

The heat withdraws, and he shivers as air hits his wet skin. He hears Aramis rummage in the drawer. In the next moment, lube trickles down his cleft, cold and sticky, and Aramis catches it with his fingers. He presses the pad of his thumb against Athos’ hole, but he doesn’t push it in. Athos is panting into the pillow, lightheaded with lust. The pressure between his legs is almost too much, but Aramis merely holds his finger there, completely still, as if bent on inflicting some kind of sophisticated torture. Athos groans and spreads his legs further apart. Finally, finally, Aramis moves. He doesn’t push in but begins to circle; it’s slow and it’s agonising, and Athos almost sobs into the pillow. Just when it becomes unbearable, Aramis scissors his forefinger and middle finger around the base of Athos’ balls, pushes them up, and shoves the tip of his thumb into Athos. Athos gasps and thrusts his arse up. Aramis holds his hand still, motionless and gentle, as if he wanted Athos to get used to the sensation of being fingered. After an eternity, he pulls out his thumb and pushes in his middle finger instead. It’s so much longer, Athos feels it slide into him, move inside him, and when it rubs over his prostate, Athos’s body jolts forward. 

Aramis reaches around him, takes Athos’ hand and guides it to his cock. “Get yourself off,” he says. 

Without thinking, because his entire head is filled with cotton wool, Athos gropes blindly and fucks himself into his own fist. When he comes, only a few strokes later, his orgasm is ripped from his entire body, rising from the soles of his feet and tumbling down from the top of his head. He’s boneless and tingling, a viscous mass of sweat and spunk and shivering flesh. 

Aramis never lets go of him. He slides one hand up Athos’ spine and around his chest and pulls him close, snaking his other arm beneath Athos’ neck. Still shaky, Athos wraps his fingers around Aramis’. Aramis’ cock slips between Athos’ legs; he’s fully hard again, and there is one breathless moment when Athos expects Aramis to fuck him. But no, Aramis rubs himself between his legs, his cock slides through the cleft of his arse, beneath his balls and between his thighs. In the circle of Aramis’ arms, Athos pushes back, and they rock together, harder and faster, until Aramis suddenly tenses and groans. His cock twitches between Athos’ legs, spurting a jet of come all over Athos’ thigh.

The good thing about having sex with another man is that they both instantly fall into an orgasm-induced stupor. The world around Athos narrows down, everything is muffled and dull as he drifts off to sleep. Dozing off, he feels Aramis’ hand twitch, and then Aramis’ whole body. “Myoclonic jerk,” he thinks fondly, as a last conscious effort.

When he wakes up again, darkness has fallen outside. His entire body is sticky and his back itches where Aramis’ hairs are glued to his skin. Behind him, Aramis stirs, and Athos can tell he’s no longer asleep, either.

“What time is it?” Athos asks hoarsely.

Aramis disentangles himself from him and rolls over to find his phone. “Half past ten.”

Athos rolls onto his back and puts his hand over his eyes. “Too early to go to sleep.”

“Yeah.” Aramis touches his hair lightly in a passing caress, and then turns away, switches on the light and rummages around in the nightstand. “How about a smoke?”

“Good idea.” Athos shoves a pillow under his head and blinks up at Aramis, who has hauled himself up with his back against the wall, put a book on his lap and is beginning to skin up. Aramis looks completely wild, with his hair in disarray and his mouth wet and swollen. 

“Do you want me to stay?” Athos asks.

“Yes.” Aramis looks at him. “Yes, of course.” He smiles. “As you say, the night is still young.”

“Yeah.” He watches Aramis prep the rizlas, roll a filter from bit of cardboard he’s torn off the cigarette case, heat the hash over the flame of his lighter, crumble it and sprinkle it over the tobacco. “You’re really good at this,” he says in a level voice, without specifying what ‘this’ is.

Aramis tips his head back, smirking. “So I’ve been told.”

Athos snorts. “For a moment there, I thought-” He frowns. It occurs to him that he might be giving Aramis ideas. 

“What?” Aramis glances down at him. Athos shakes his head and hitches the blanket up higher so that it covers his stomach. “That I’d fuck you, just like that?” Aramis says, demonstrating once again that uncanny knack he has for guessing what’s going on in Athos’ head. This is getting ridiculous. “Surprise buttsex?” Aramis grins, and Athos smiles ruefully. Now that he thinks about it, he realises it’s ludicrous. “You should know that I’d never do that.”

“Yeah. I know” He frowns, hesitates and decides to power through with it, even though this conversation feels almost more intimate than Aramis’ tongue up his arse. “Is that something you want to do, somewhere along the line?”

“Well…” Aramis licks the gum of the rizlas and begins to roll the joint, seemingly immersed in the task at hand “To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t really like anal.”

“You don’t? So all this then-”

“No, I mean. This is fine. I like all this, the licking and the fingering. I’m just not too keen on sticking it in. It doesn’t do it for me. It’s like a tight ring, but once you get past it, that’s it, there’s hardly any pressure at all. A vagina is tight throughout. Frankly, ass fucking is overrated. I blame porn.”

Athos raises himself on his elbows and sits up until he’s level with Aramis. 

“You are full of surprises. Everyone seems to be doing it these days, and you are at the forefront of doing it.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s false advertising I’m afraid. I’m such a deviant.”

“You really are.” They sit in silence for a while and Athos watches Aramis finish rolling the joint and light it. “But you have done it.”

“Yeah. And I’d do it with you, if you wanted to.” He takes a deep drag and holds the smoke in his lungs. “Do you?”

“I haven’t really given it a thought.” No, that’s not true. “If anything I only ever had that vague straight man’s idea of not getting fucked up the arse. I haven’t reconsidered it in the new light.”

“You’re not completely straight, though. You’re at least a tiny little bit bi.”

“Fuck.” Athos takes the spliff from Aramis and inhales deeply. “Do I have to come out now?”

“You can do whatever you want.”

“When did you come out?” He’s suddenly curious. It’s always been common knowledge that Aramis slept with men as well as women. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t know that, but he can’t remember the occasion when Aramis told him, either. 

“I never did.” Aramis says and takes the joint from Athos. “I never came out as bisexual, because I never came out as sexual.” He smokes in silence for a moment. “I mean I don’t walk up to people and tell them, Hi, I’m Aramis, and I fuck women. Why should I tell them I fuck men? Unless it becomes relevant.”

“Apparently, you don’t. Fuck men.”

“Yeah. There’s that.”

“What about getting fucked? Do you like that?”

“Not particularly. It’s okay if it’s with someone who knows what they’re doing and takes their time. And takes care that it doesn’t hurt.” He’s lounging against the wall with his head tipped back and his neck arched in a long graceful curve. “I’m just really not into anal, it doesn’t get me off and it’s much more bother than it’s worth.

“I was under the impression that you liked a bit of pain.”

“A bit. And it’s got to be the right kind of pain. Restraint and sharp nails are fine, painful anal sex is not. It’s a fine line, I admit, not everyone gets it,” he adds with that note of biting sarcasm that he exhibits occasionally and with great precision. 

“Was there ever a time that you didn’t know? That you’re attracted to men as well as women.”

“No,” Aramis shakes his head and slides down so that he can lean his head against Athos’ shoulder. “I always found it baffling how people can be attracted to only one gender. As if the set of genitals was more important than the person, you know?”

It’s not about genitals, though, Athos thinks, as they continue to smoke in silence. It’s the way the whole body feels, it could almost be a different species. It’s about how much larger a man is. Aramis is not massive, but he is bigger, heavier, more solid than any woman Athos has ever been with. Athos’ body remembers what having sex was like, but it turns out that his muscle memory makes him do things that are wrong for a man. He had to unlearn pressing his leg between thighs that are spread for him. The first time he did that, he almost kneed Aramis in the balls, and there was a bit of a scuffle before they sorted out their limbs. Aramis’ skin feels different than a woman’s, too. Athos is still getting used to the sensations of hairs scratching against his chest when they are pressed up together. It’s itchy, especially once they’re soaked in sweat, and he wonders if that is what it always feels like for women. And as much as he likes kissing Aramis’ mouth and neck, he’d enjoy it much more without rubbing himself raw on the scruff. Sex with a man is much hairier than with a woman, and he’s always getting hairs in his mouth. “We are so lucky they want to sleep with us at all.” 

“Who?”

“Women.”

Aramis laughs. “Oh, we have our good points, too.”

“Obviously,” Athos says drily.

“Hm,” Aramis takes one last drag and stubs out the butt in the ashtray. He rolls on his side and curls his arm around Athos’ middle. “I for one am very glad that you decided to experiment with me.”

Athos smirks with a corner of his mouth and threads his fingers through Aramis’ hair. “You made a very persuasive argument,” he says. “You kissed me, because you wanted to know what it’d be like,” he explains in answer to Aramis’ quizzical look. “That’s quite impressive academic zeal.”

“Yeah,” Aramis laughs. “Really, though, I don’t know what came over me when I asked you, but I’m very glad that I did.” He presses his mouth into Athos’ ribs. “Truly.”

Athos is stroking his hair. “So am I,” he says in a low voice. “It’s… been an education.”

Aramis lifts his head and smiles. “More?”

~*~

“How did you not know all those years that you like taking it up the arse?” Aramis chokes out the words, forcing them up a throat that is tight with arousal. Athos can barely hear him through the throb of blood in his ears. “Look at you. Just,” he laughs shakily, “just look at you. I wish you could see this.” He leans in and kisses Athos on the tailbone. Athos can feel Aramis’ kiss rush along the highway of nerves all the way up his spine and tingle on top of his head. “You’re so soft,” Aramis whispers and twists his wrist, turning his fingers inside Athos. “I never knew you could relax like this.”

Aramis shifts and moves, his leg scrapes against Athos’ thigh, and Athos twitches, his skin still over-sensitised after his previous orgasm. Aramis' hand is warm and so gentle as if he thought Athos was going to break when he did more than hover his hand millimetres above Athos’ skin. Merely teasing the fine hairs that stand up all over his body, as if he was a cat and Aramis’ hand a piece of amber, up and down his flanks and his thighs; soft brushes that have no right to be so overwhelmingly fucking erotic. He kissed him and continued to kiss him until Athos melted, groaned and pulled Aramis down, kissing back furiously. He felt Aramis smile against his mouth. “Turn over,” Aramis said, his grip tightening all of a sudden, fingers digging into Athos’ ribs, guiding him until he came to rest on his front. “Relax,” Aramis said. “But don’t you dare fall asleep.” And he bit Athos’ ear.

And here they are, half an eternity later, Athos sprawled on his stomach with a pillow shoved under his hips and his arse thrust in the air. Aramis shifts and moves, his leg scrapes against Athos’ thigh, and he twitches, because sweat has made the hairs on his legs and on Aramis’ sticky, and the contact is not a smooth slide of skin on skin but an itch that he has to scratch. His body jerks up and sucks in Aramis’ fingers more deeply.

“I’ve got three fingers inside you,” Aramis whispers. He sounds, Athos thinks dizzily, completely in awe. “You’ve never been so open before.”

Athos squeezes his eye shut, against the sweat that burns in them. Aramis has never talked to him like this before, either. Not like this. ‘Slower,’ he might’ve said, or ‘turn towards me’, or ‘touch yourself now’, or ‘like this, more, please’, simple commands and expressions of gratitude, interspersed with the occasional Spanish curse, nothing to worry about. He’s not like this now, he’s fucking narrating what they are doing with each other. To each other. What he is doing to Athos, and Athos isn’t sure if this is the most arousing or the most embarrassing fuck he’s ever had.

“How did you not know that you like taking it up the arse?” He pulls his fingers back, and then out, and swipes around his hole, and all blood drains from Athos’ entire body and cascades to that one spot. “Why have you never tried it before?”

Athos groans. He should’ve known. Hash makes Aramis talkative. Athos, conversely, gets quiet when he’s been smoking, his mind lulled into an elusive peace, and his tongue just another languishing muscle. But Aramis is circling him and circling him in slow, teasing strokes, as if he had all the time in the world, and Athos, who feels himself quiver under the soft touch, knows that Aramis is waiting for an answer.

“Annsadafingernthere,” he mumbles into the pillow.

Aramis laughs softly. “What?” he leans in, and his wrist slots into Athos’ cleft. Athos groans, clears his throat and tries again. “Anne. She used her finger. Once or twice. When she sucked me off.”

“Anne?” There is a hitch to Aramis’ voice, and Athos’ brain kicks into gear.

“My Anne, I mean. Not yours. Milady, not Queenie.”

There is silence, at first, for a few agonising moments there’s silence, and then Aramis snorts with laughter and buries his mouth in the nape of Athos’ neck. Athos laughs too, giggles even, the undignified, hysterical laughter of the well and truly stoned.

“God,” Aramis manages eventually, pressing damp kisses into Athos’ skin. “I really hope none of them ever finds out what we call them.”

“Queenie would’ve a sense of humour about it,” Athos mutters. “She’s got nothing to complain about, we call her a queen.”

“From what I heard, Milady’d murder us, though,” Aramis says. His kisses have turned edgier, sharper, with a hint of teeth behind them. “If she knew that we didn’t make her royalty.”

“She is very much a commoner,” Athos says without thinking.

Aramis nuzzles Athos’ neck and whispers, very close to his ear. “‘S that what you liked about her?”

Athos tenses and jerks his head away. “Sorry,” Aramis says, “sorry, sorry, sorry. That was tactless. That was more than tactless.” He hovers uncertainly, and he’s about to pull away, Athos can tell. For a moment, he is tempted to let him, to make him feel rejected; to punish him. But then Aramis sighs, takes a deep breath and Athos lifts his head and kisses him.

“You really can’t help it,” he says at last, when they break apart, panting. Aramis’ eyes are huge in the light of the bedside lamp.

“I really can’t,” Aramis says, smiling ruefully. Athos finds he enjoys watching him squirm from time to time. “Have I wrecked it?” He actually sounds uncertain, and Athos’ spirits soar. His cheek is resting comfortably on his folded arms; he raises one corner of his mouth in a non-smile and watches Aramis fidget with his hair.

“She had long nails,” he says eventually, when he decides that Aramis has suffered enough.

“What?”

“Milady. Her nails were too long, it… It wasn’t comfortable. Yours are short.”

“Oh. Yes.” Aramis glances down at his hand mechanically and then back at Athos. “Does that mean we’re still on?”

At that, Athos laughs, a genuinely happy laugh that has nothing to do with the THC in his system, and he pulls Aramis close and presses his forehead to his. “Yeah, we’re still on.” He kisses Aramis on the corner of his mouth. “But you’ll better make it worth my while.”

“Oh, I will.” Aramis stretches out beside him, throws one leg over Athos’ thigh and zig-zags his blunt nails down Athos’ back. “I was just surprised, that’s all,” he picks up where he left off, “that you’ve never, you know, experimented before I came along. You’re so responsive.” His voice hitches again, and he pushes himself over Athos, his knee between Athos’ legs and his cock dragging over Athos’ thigh, the swell of his arse. “Are you comfortable like this?” The sound of his voice, suddenly rough with lust again, his touch, an intoxicating blend of tenderness and confidence, are almost enough to throw Athos back into the state of blissful haze in which he floated before Aramis decided he wanted to have a conversation. Almost.

Before he thought of Anne. Anne’s mouth on him and Anne’s fingers sharp and cruel, and he should’ve known, but he was young then, and she was the first woman he loved.

And then nothing. Years of self-imposed celibacy, and no, he never experimented, because his sex-drive was pretty much non-existent for ages, as if Anne had taken his libido with her when she left. Like she took everything else.

“Relax,” Aramis mutters. “Whatever it is that’s going round your head, it can wait till tomorrow.” Crouched between Athos’ legs, he runs his hands down his flanks, round his thighs, and dips his thumbs briefly into the cleft of Athos’ arse, pulling him open for a moment or two, as he blows a cool breath of air against his heated skin.

Athos’ hips twitch forward, and then back again, because the weight of his body on his cock is too much. He reaches under himself and adjusts his cock against the pillow.

Aramis swipes a hand firmly over the back of his leg. “Ready?”

“What for?” Athos has just time to ask, before he yelps, jolts up and crashes into the wall.

“Jesus!” Aramis grabs him by the hips and pulls him back down. “Stay here. You don’t want to wake Porthos.”

“His room is miles away,” Athos says the moment he catches his breath. “Speaking of which: did you lock the door? To your room?”

“Why, are you worried he might come in?” Aramis leans back in and Athos can feel him grin, even though he can’t see his face, a mischievous tug at the corners of his mouth. “Porthos knows better than coming into my room unannounced. Especially at night. Not even if there was a fire. He’d just send me a text to tell me to get dressed and get out.”

“You’re a degenerate,” Athos says, and then gasps, because Aramis has bitten the hollow of his other knee, and this time he’s holding Athos fast to stop him from crashing into the wall again.

“Mmh,” Aramis assents happily, dragging his teeth and tongue and beard up the inside of Athos’ thigh, “utterly depraved.” And he bites into the crease on top of Athos’ thigh. “Stay here,” he mutters. “Or do you want me to tie you down?”

“What?” Athos raises his head at this. That has not been part of the plan.

Aramis laughs. “Don’t worry. I won’t, unless you want me to.”

“All right.”

“What?”

“Do it.”

He hears Aramis hiss in a breath, and there is a tremendous sense of power in this: in the knowledge that he can turn Aramis on simply by lying there and going along with his ideas. Aramis almost falls off the bed as he fumbles for the nightstand. His arm appears in Athos’ field of vision and when he pulls back, he’s holding a rope.

Aramis leans back in, and his voice is so thick with desire, Athos can barely make out the words. “I’ll just tie your ankles, tell me if it gets uncomfortable.” Athos turns his neck and their lips collide messily. “This is not about restraint, I’m not going to do your arms, you’ll be more comfortable like this, using them to cushion your head,” he’s babbling, and Athos finds he loves it, loves having made Aramis nervous, loves beating him at his own game. “It’s only to help you stay in place. Stay anchored.”

“You’ve done this before,” Athos says, not so much to reassure himself, but to reassure Aramis.

“Yeah, yeah. But never-” Aramis loops the end of the rope around his ankle and tugs experimentally. “Okay? Yeah, I’ve done this before, but never…” he laughs shakily and strokes Athos’ calf with the flat of his hand, “with you.”

Oh. This is. Overwhelming. A wave of hot tenderness unfurls in his stomach and his chest, and he actually feels it tug at his heartstrings, for fuck’s sake, and it doesn’t get any more teeth-meltingly saccharine than that.

Aramis pushes the pillow into place, runs his hands down Athos’ hips and – curses.

“What?”

“I’ve lost the lube. Fuck.” He lifts the blanket, chucks one spare pillow on the floor and burrows his hand under Athos. “You may be lying on it…”

“You know, I thought you’d be better at this. You’re not very smooth at all, are you?”

“Is that a wise thing to say for a man in your position, you think?”

“I trust you,” Athos says simply, still riding the high of that overwhelming heat wave.

“Well, thank you. I’m truly honoured.” Aramis presses a hand to his heart, and he looks at him, his eyes black and serious, and then he smiles. “Found it!” He kisses Athos on the shoulder, slides his hand down his back and grabs his arse. “And no, I’m not very smooth, actually.”

Athos groans. The lube runs in a cool stream into his cleft, and Aramis catches it with his thumb and presses it into him. “You’re still so soft, my fingers slide in, just like that.” Athos groans again. He has almost forgotten, during their short respite, what it feels like to have Aramis’ fingers up his arse. His lips begin to pound with blood, and his face burns. “Oh fuck,” he groans again and presses his face into the pillow. It smells of Aramis, and he wants to burrow himself in it. “Fuck.”

“Yes.” Aramis pulls out and thrusts back in, and he’s added more fingers, more heft. “Come on, Athos.” He moans at the sound of his own name. It doesn’t take long, and his name is the only word he can distinguish, as Aramis is talking again, the rest is just sounds, a low, honeyed voice that anchors him to the spot like the restraints round his ankles. His body has taken over, he’s just the passenger, swept on a joyride and clinging on for dear life. His last conscious act is to sneak one hand under his pelvis to grab his cock, but Aramis stops him.

“No, trust me.” He’s holding Athos’ wrist. “That’s not important now. Focus on this.” And he twists his hand and rubs inside him, and the flesh between his legs explodes. His body spasms and clamps down on the firm bones of Aramis’ fingers. “Yeah, like that,” Aramis breathes. “Let go, let yourself go, Athos, I’ve got four fingers inside you.” He moves his hand again, and the sensation is almost too much, Athos is panting into the pillow, and he’s breathing in Aramis’ scent with every desperate gasp for air.

“This is the broadest part of my hand,” Aramis continues, his words fading in and out like a badly tuned radio. “I can’t stretch you any more than that.” His other hand is curled around Athos’ hip, holding him in place. “I can feel your heartbeat around my hand.” And he slides his other hand up Athos spine and curls it around the nape of his neck, cradling the base of his skull with his fingers.

It’s a good thing Aramis is holding him like this, because Athos can’t even feel the bonds around his ankles anymore, a sense of numbness has come upon him, and nothing else matters but the sensation of being ripped apart at his very core, and it should hurt, as Aramis’ hand spreads him and twists slowly inside him, but there is no pain. Just relief and a throbbing intensity, and it is like an open wound that Aramis has closed.

He’s tripping, Athos realises. This is just like tripping, the full-body bliss-out, and he would love to say something, but he’s in a place where there are no words, and then a push between his legs, and another one, each one stronger than the others, and each surge creates a wave of numbness, bursting and fading, and he’s coming from the sheer intensity of it all, and Aramis is keeping his hand perfectly still, he isn’t even fingerfucking him anymore.

When he comes to, the pillow under his pelvis and the restraints are gone, and Aramis is curled around him, stroking him with the tips of his fingers. “All right?” he asks casually, as if he has not just ripped him open and filled him anew.

“You bastard,” Athos pants. He turns his head away from the pillow that is soaked in Aramis’ scent. But it was a mistake, his face is now burrowed against Aramis’ chest, and Athos is too exhausted to turn away. Aramis smells good, of sweat and of sex, but it’s too much for his senses, the intoxicating scent that fills his nose and coats his tongue, he will never recover from this. “Should’ve warned me.” He manages at last.

“I told you you like this. I’ve been telling you for ages, ever since the first time you let me finger you, remember?”

Athos would love to argue, just for the fun of it, but that’s impossible. He’s drifting, off and away. He uses his last ounce of strength for one important question. “What ‘bout you?”

“I’m fine.” Aramis nestles closer and gathers Athos to his chest. “Fucking exhausted, actually.”

Athos is half asleep already, dream images begin to flash before his eyes, but Aramis’ words penetrate the hazy fog. “She’s not my Anne,” Aramis murmurs into his hair.

“I know. Go to sleep, Aramis.” Athos can barely move his mouth enough to speak. He certainly can’t move anything else, as all his bones and muscles have turned to gelatine. He’s lying with Aramis’ arm slung around him and his skin still tingling with the aftershocks.

Aramis sighs and mmhs into Athos’ hair, but he seems determined to have the last word.

“They’re never mine.”

~*~

The next time he wakes, he doesn’t have to look at the clock. He knows exactly what time it is, he feels it in his bones; it is the long dark time of the soul, the darkest and most oppressive of all hours. Aramis is asleep, arms and legs spread out untidily, and Athos extricates himself from them as carefully as possible. Aramis mutters something indistinctive, but doesn’t wake up.

He gets up, walks over to the open window and looks out, over the backyards of Berlin, breathing in the night air. There’s a full moon tonight, and it is hanging directly above the window, pouring its silver light into the room. Perhaps that’s what woke him up. The last time he lived through such marrow-deep intensity was when he was sleeping with Anne. His arse, the insides of his thighs are sticky with lube and sweat and spit and come. Aramis is entirely unconcerned about the mess. Anne was the same; she loved fucking when she was on her period, leaving smears of blood and come everywhere. Anne taught him not to wipe off the traces of sex.

The desire to bolt has returned with full force. He wants to get dressed, but he’s not sure where his clothes are. Some are scattered in bed, and he can’t get at them without waking Aramis. When he glances over to where Aramis is asleep, all that he can distinguish is the dark head against the white pillows and one arm thrown wide open. He feels ripped open and raw. It is as if his soul was a cauldron of horrible things and he let a crust form on top, has let it grow thicker and thicker over the years, until Aramis pounced at him. Aramis has begun to poke at the crust, already it is crumbling away, and stuff is seeping out, horrible stuff, and he’s afraid of what will happen when it erupts.

Behind him, Aramis stirs, but Athos doesn’t turn around. He rests his chin on his folded arms and braces himself for the questions he is sure will come. But Aramis doesn’t say a word. He gets up, walks over and comes to stand behind him. He wraps an arm around him and presses his cheek into Athos’ shoulder. Athos recoils. “You’re scratchy.”

“Sorry,” Aramis says without moving away. “Would you rather I was clean-shaven?”

“That’s none of my business.”

“Mmh. I think it is.” For a few heartbeats, Aramis goes silent and completely still, and Athos feels some of the tension drain from his muscles. “Post coitem animal triste est,” Aramis suddenly says. “I’m sorry, Athos. I realise this got rather intense. Would you rather we stopped?”

“Would you do that?”

“Reluctantly. But yes. Yes, I would. If you don’t want it, we stop.”

Athos snorts. “We should not have started. I shouldn’t have.”

“Well, if it comes to that, I shouldn’t have. I should’ve kept away from you, in the same way that I should’ve kept away from a lot of other people. From anyone who has ever become my victim. I should be locked up and not let out to prey on humanity,” he concludes with dramatic humour. “But, on the other hand, there’s this.” He runs his hand down Athos’ shoulder, loins, thigh, and Athos shivers.

“You have no self-control.” Athos says.

“You have.”

Athos bends his head and presses his forehead against his forearms; cool with night air, the touch of his own skin soothes his heated face. “What do you want?” he whispers. “Where is this going?”

“I don’t know.” Aramis lets go of him. When Athos turns his head, he can see Aramis leaning against the window in the opposite corner with his arms crossed, looking up at the moon. “I don’t want to screw this up,” he says without looking at Athos. “But I know that I will.”

Athos knows that, too. Though he’s not sure which one of them will screw it up first. The fact that they’re friends has made it easy to slip into this… thing, but it makes the prospect of a fallout even more terrifying. And what about Porthos? When he and Aramis upset the balance of their group, what happens to Porthos? Is this why he’s withdrawn from them lately, spending more and more time with the friends he has known all his life?

“This whole adulthood business,” Athos says. “It’s vastly overrated.”

Aramis startles and crashes back to earth. “Yeah,” he laughs jerkily. “From where I’m standing, there’s only one advantage to being an adult.”

Athos’ mouth curls up in a grin that he can’t control. “You’re impossible.”

Aramis raises his eyebrows and glances at the moon again with a rueful smile. “As coping mechanisms go,” he says, “you’ve got to admit this is a rather good one.”

Athos unfolds his arms, reaches out and flattens his palm against Aramis’ chest, just above his heart. The dramatic, moon-induced chiaroscuro makes Aramis look like a Baroque portrait. When he moves, Athos catches sight of his reflection in the mirror and for a moment there’s a sense of a split-screen alienation; he can see Aramis’ face, but he can see fragments of his back at the same time, and he stares at the point in his line of vision where they meet.

Aramis puts his hand over Athos’ and begins to walk him backward towards the bed. “Yeah, about this,” he says, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. “Kneel on the bed. Close to the edge.” He steps away from Athos, adjusts the cheval glass and turns back. He crosses the short distance between them with two steps, stands before Athos and kisses him. “Kneel up,” he whispers and sinks to his knees, never breaking eye contact with Athos. “Watch.”

Athos groans when Aramis takes his cock in his mouth. He’s not hard yet, and he would not have thought it possible that he can get hard again, but Aramis is rolling his cock on his tongue and Athos feels it twitch as it begins to fill. Aramis doesn’t move his head; he’s sucking him very gently with his mouth alone, and arousal builds again. Aramis’ back in the mirror is a landscape of rippling muscles and long plains. Athos stares at their reflection, at his own face, wide-eyed and alien, his expression for once unguarded. When he looks down, he can see the curve of Aramis’ forehead and brows, his lashes fluttering shut when he sucks Athos in more deeply, inch by inch, until he ends up with his face pressed into Athos’ stomach. Athos’ cock swells and twitches in the heat and pressure, and Aramis tilts his head slightly to avoid scraping his teeth over the sensitive underside.

“Fuck,” Athos whispers, clinging to Aramis’ hair with one hand.

Aramis’ eyes snap open and he looks up at him, and this simple movement makes the muscles of his shoulders and back ripple and shift. “Mmh,” he murmurs, sending vibrations all the way up Athos’ cock, to his balls and his heart. 

Athos lowers himself slowly. “Get on your hands and knees,” he tells Aramis as he sits back on his heels, thrusting his pelvis up against Aramis’ mouth. He tightens his grip in Aramis’ hair and watches his face, his eyes open and dark and huge. On his hands and knees, with his back to the mirror, with his mouth stretched around Athos’ cock, Aramis is open and vulnerable, entirely at Athos’ mercy. He shifts his gaze from Aramis’ face to the reflection in the mirror, the lines of his thighs, the curve of his arse, and imagines himself fucking it. “Oh fuck!” he groans and jerks back abruptly, hurting himself on Aramis’ teeth when he pulls out of his mouth.

“You okay?”

“Too much,” Athos pants. This is too intense, he’s too sore, and he wonders if he’s going to come again, and if so, if it’ll hurt. 

Aramis wipes his mouth, raises himself from the floor and slides on the bed behind Athos. He kisses him on the neck. “Get on all fours,” he says quietly. “Stop me if it gets too much.”

“Green,” Athos says with a faint smile. He turns his head to press his lips against Aramis’ in a messy kiss; to lick off that smirk that is curling in the corners of Aramis’ mouth. 

Aramis puts a hand on the back of his neck and motions him down, makes him balance on his knees and elbows. He grabs Athos’ hair and pulls his head up. Athos gasps at the sight of his own reflection and the sudden assault of Aramis tongue. Aramis is rimming him again, thrusting his tongue into his arse harder and faster than before, and he’s so open, so open, and his face is open too, and Athos can’t look away from his own reflection, Aramis' hand in his hair keeps him in place. 

Aramis' hand in his hair tethers him, and Athos permits himself being guided by it. When Aramis presses the length of his arm against Athos’ back, pushing him down, he complies until he’s lying with his chest on the mattress and his arse in the air. “Stay there,” Aramis says. He withdraws briefly, sliding one hand down Athos’ leg all the way down to his ankle as he moves away, never breaking the contact between them. 

He’s back, and there's slick pressure against his arsehole, and Aramis pushes something inside him, slowly, even though Athos offers no resistance. For a moment, he’s being stretched and stretched, and then the buttplug slips in and Athos exhales a lungful of air. Aramis taps against the base of the plug, and the vibrations surge up Athos’ spine. “This,” he whispers, wrapping his hands around Athos’ hips as he kneels up behind him, “this is what it’d look like if I fucked you.” He meets Athos’ gaze in the mirror and rolls his hips against his arse. 

Sweat is running down Athos’ neck, dripping from his hair and running into his eyes. He’s never felt his own body more, he’s aware of every hair on his skin, of the tension in his arms, the weight of his body as it presses into the mattress. And it is an out-of-body experience at the same time, unreal and blurry. He feels every fibre of his body, and he stands outside himself: it is ecstasy in the true sense of the word. All conscious thoughts abandon him, all but one. He wonders, in between the waves of lust that surge though him and drown out everything else, if this night will bring them closer together or if it will drive them apart. If they will ever be able to be around each other in daylight; in company; in the real world. There is something magnetic about Aramis. When the magnet flips, though, when it flips, the power of repulsion will be as strong as the power of attraction.

**Author's Note:**

>  _À bout de souffle_ ("Breathless") is a Jean-Luc Godard film from 1960.


End file.
